


Then We Will See Face to Face

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angsty Schmoop, First Time, M/M, Romance, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are days when Dean can pretend that Sam was never dead. Like today, like now; watching Sam spin around some hotel dance floor with a woman in white, his face flushed open in joy, Dean can almost see this as his brother’s wedding, can picture him again 22, holding the love of his life in his arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Then We Will See Face to Face

There are days when Dean can pretend that Sam was never dead.

Like today, like now; watching Sam spin around some hotel dance floor with a woman in white, his face flushed open in joy, Dean can almost see this as his brother’s wedding, can picture him again 22, holding the love of his life in his arms.

The bride Sam's holding isn't his, of course. She's a friend from Stanford, somebody he bonded with for life over the pain of Macroeconomic Theory, it seems, and when the kid saw the wedding announcement last week in the _Washington Post_ online, complete with silver-toned picture of the couple-to-be, he wouldn't take no for answer.

Dean bitches about it at first, just for old time's sake. Points out the humidity, the heat, the lack of an actual invitation.

But Sam’s granite and Dean doesn’t push. There’s not a lot that get Sam going these days and Dean likes seeing him bright-eyed and ambulatory.

So Dean starts thinking logistics.

It’s a night wedding, the paper says, doesn’t get going till eight, and night weddings are always formal, which means tuxes, at least.

"What?" he says to Sam’s eyebrow. "I read shit, ok? Don't question my Emily Post."

They have some trouble finding formal wear--it's the middle of prom season, apparently, even in Concord, New Hampshire--and it cuts into their bank a little deeper than Dean expects. But Sam looks lively, practically human for the first time in ages, and that’s worth its weight in bills.

Fuck it. Dean'll pick up more hours when he can at the bookstore, when they get back.

It takes them two days to make North Carolina. Once, Dean could have done it in a day, less than, but it's been a long time since he's done that and his car's out of the groove, too. She's grumpy for the first 200 miles and he has to sing her down the Catskills, stroke her dash and tell her what a good girl she is for him, always has been. Always will.

Sam watches him with one eye open, amused, and then slips back down into sleep.

Dean does his best not to stare.

The first few weeks Sam was back, really Sam, Dean hadn’t let him out of his sight.

Part of it was that he didn't trust Cas, not the God-ed out version, anyway. It was the last act of a dying God: “I’ve made him whole again, body and soul,” Cas’d breathed, beatific, but Dean was wary. Hard not to be, when your best friend was leaking monsters and burning away in front of your eyes.

"Dean," Castiel had said, the little of him that was left. "I am sorry."

He'd touched Sam's head and Sam'd screamed, gone white pale like he was dying, and by the time Dean was sure he wasn’t, had the kid’s pulse under his palm, Castiel was gone.

Sam had slept a lot at first, when he was all him, so part of Dean can’t help but clench, still, when he sees the kid sleeping. His brain jumps right back to those long, cold weeks when it seemed like Sam's eyes were always closed, and he feels powerless and terrified, just like he did then, and--

"Dude," Sam sighs. "You're staring."

"Yeah, well," Dean huffs over the wheel. "Sorry."

It’s a night wedding, sure, but traffic’s a bitch all the way down 81, and it’s almost six by the time they get to Charlotte. They don’t have time to find a motel first, have to change at some Wendy’s near the interstate. Two grown men crammed into a stall too small, and it’s almost funny, pure Marx Brothers crap, until Sammy gets flummoxed by his tie.

Cummerbunds and cufflinks they both navigate, no sweat, but the bow tie throws the fuck out of Sam. He storms out of the stall with the thing flapping around his throat, flushed with frustration. He hates not being able to do something right the very first time that he tries, always has, and sometimes, that’s good. Hell, that personality quirk had kept them alive more than once: a perfectly pronounced spell, a warding symbol sketched from memory, a kendo move Dean was sure their dad had shown them only once.

But just as often, that trait’s a pain in the ass, because when he isn’t perfect, Sam turns his fury inside. When he was little, it'd come out like screaming and yelling; but now, as a man, he just glares when he’s sure he's fucked up. Bites his lip and narrows his eyes and hates himself so loud that Dean’s sure he can hear it, ashy echoes of those long-ago tantrums.

Once, Dean would have ignored it; rolled his eyes and hit Sam on the head and waited for the kid to come down.

But now, after all Sam has been through, all he’s done, it’s just ridiculous, getting upset over stupid shit like this.

Not being able to tie a bow tie, now. Come on.

So Dean tries to head it off at the pass.

He catches his hand in Sam's chest, white starch silhouette, and knocks the kid to the sink with a sigh. Bangs on Sam's shoulders until he gets the message, bends his knees so Dean can reach his tie. They’re stacked two deep at the counter, Dean's hands draped around Sam's neck from behind, trying to match the image of his fingers with what he can actually feel, and it’s confusing as hell.

What seems simple on his own body goes sideways there on Sam's.

He plunks his chin on Sam's shoulder, aiming for a better angle, and his eyes are so far deep in the mirror, in the pale arc traces of own hands as he finally gets the fucker straight, that he almost misses it. Would have, probably, if Sam didn’t choose just that moment to get unsteady, to waver a little on his feet. He slips and his head falls back to Dean's shoulder and Dean grabs him, one arm falling to his brother’s waist easy, like he has, oh, a thousand eight hundred million times.

He raises his eyes, amused, big brother snide at the ready, but then he gets a look at Sam's face.

Sam’s eyes are wide, brown bleeding green in the cheap light, and they’re full of something sweet and huge that Dean can see he’s aching to say. His mouth is moving, his jaw shaking where it’s pressed against Dean's, but it’s quiet there between them. So much silence there, still.

Then Sam shudders. Closes his eyes and pulls away. Bangs out of the bathroom like that.

Dean stands there for a second, his arms still stupid in the air until they find their way to the counter. They give him a brace as his brain tries to wipe all sense from his body, all memory of whatever that was in Sam's eyes, whatever had made his own breath get short and his dick go hard and that was about all he could handle. Just that.

He stares at Sam all the damn time, sure, but there’s a whole list of shit he makes a living effort not to see.

How beautiful Sam is. How strong. How Dean’s heart goes stupid at the curve of his shoulders, the dip of his lips when he smiles.

But most of all, Dean has sworn he’d never see the thing in Sam’s eyes, the one that shows up sometimes when he thinks Dean isn’t looking.

That same thing Dean’d seen in the mirror: a soft knot of love, want, and need that makes him feel so hard his knees quake, and he might’ve gone over if not for the dude who bangs in right then with a sneer.

When he makes it to the car, Sam’s there nonchalant and yeah, that’s the best way to go.

Deny deny deny, especially when you’ve got another hour to drive.

It’s almost dark before they finally make the turn, before Dean cuts the Impala up the hotel’s driveway and they catch a look at the place: white columns and blue arches and it looks like a wedding cake fucked a mini golf course and abandoned the offspring here, by the side of the Catawba River, and strung the whole fucker in lights.

It’s kinda mesmerizing, like an architectural car crash, and they stand at the foot of the stairs gaping for a moment too long. Then the music starts inside, long bow strings and guitars, and they make it to their seats just in time.

**

The ceremony's mercifully short: one song, no sermon, quick prayer. Dean hasn't been to a lot of weddings, but he's seen enough to know that the idea of the things is usually more appealing than the reality.

They sit on the bride's side, near the aisle. Everybody looks serious and nobody's in tails and only when it's done does the bride even venture a smile.

In the receiving line, Sam introduces him. Her name's Jordan and she’s with the ACLU now and isn't it hard to believe how many years have gone by? They smile at each other, she and Sam, affection made easy with time, and then she turns to the next guest behind.

After that, Sam's quiet. Doesn't do much more than grunt when Dean brings him flute after flute of champagne.

They sit on the edge of the dance floor and watch the room get progressively drunk. It’s hot and the air’s broken with the smell of flowers, lilies and roses and some others that Dean doesn’t know. He drinks enough to relax, to get his legs loose in the fucking uncomfortable chair and to watch Sam’s face unabashed.

Sam doesn’t know how to feel, it looks like.

He drinks every damn thing Dean puts in his fist, but his eyes keep wandering around like lost and it makes Dean uneasy, that goddamn look on his face.

So he pushes it, pushes Sam, drags him up from the chair and practically throws him at Jordan, this girl in her cupcake white, this girl who is not Jess, this girl who knew Sam when. And she opens her arms, god bless her, pulls him in and starts spinning before the bastard knows what hit him.

Dean retreats to the safety of a refill and watches them turn, watches Sam’s body soften and shift as Jordan covers him in fluff and sequins. She makes him laugh, beautiful and unbidden, a sound Dean hasn’t heard in forever, and it was worth it, the whole fucking trip, just for that. Just to hear that sweet happy sound.

When it’s over, Dean claps along with everybody else. The music gets louder and the crowd shifts; he can’t see Sam anymore, and for the first time in ages, that’s okay.

He slips out onto the deck, the big one in the back that hangs over the water, and sucks the last out of his glass. It’s muggy as hell and there are some crazy loud bugs in the dark that he’s glad he can’t see, but it’s cooler than inside, especially after he loosens his tie.

“Hey,” Sam says behind him. “Be careful. Those things are a bitch to fix, man.”

Then he’s there, leaning over the railing at Dean’s side and grinning like an idiot.

“What?” Dean says, struggling not to smirk right back.

“No, it’s just--I, uh. Heh!”

Dean shakes his head and smiles like loud in the darkness. “What’s so fucking funny, dude?"

Sam twists, pitches his hip into the wood and Dean can feel him staring, feel those big brown whatevers catching him full in the face.

“See, this--Jordan’s grandma, the lady with the walker?” Sam says. “She grabbed me just now. Like, got a hold of my wrist and wouldn’t let go, and you wouldn’t think that somebody who looks that frail would have a grip like the fucking Hulk, she--” He cuts himself off, giggling so hard that Dean grabs his arm to keep him from going over the side. Which is probably ridiculous, but it’s instinct, too, and Dean decides not to let go.

“She told me,” Sam gasps, rolling into the touch, “she said that, I oughta be careful. Because”--he leans over, hot drunk face next to Dean’s--”based on the way my, uh, boyfriend was looking at me, I was gonna be next. Wouldn’t even have to catch the bouquet, she said. Was right there in your face. How much you love me, she said.”

The lights from inside go dim right then, from dance club bright to make-out dark, and if Dean didn’t know better, he’d say someone was watching them right now and laughing their angelic ass off, because the timing’s perfect and it’s almost romantic and everything’s so fucking beautiful and--

“God, shut up, Dean,” Sam breathes, his lips freaking stealing Dean’s air, and then they’re kissing, right there in the middle of somebody else’s wedding, somebody else’s fresh start, and maybe it’s time they got one of their own.

It’s dark and Dean can’t see a damn thing with his eyes closed anyway, but he can feel Sam pouring love through his body, pressing it into Dean’s face, his neck, his mouth and that’s enough, right then. Just to feel.

Sam’s drunk and Dean’s not but it doesn’t matter; Sam’s the one with his head in the game, the one who tugs Dean inside insistent, winds them around the party and through with his hand pressed into Dean’s back, murmuring “C’mon, Dean. C’mon.”

They make it out of the reception hall and into a breezeway and then they’re kissing again, Dean's ass pressed up tight against the chair rail, his fingers caught in Sam’s hair. It’s ragged and loud and wet and Dean kind of can’t believe nobody’s heard them, as much noise as Sam’s making: hot little gasps as their tongues touch; low, dirty moans as their hips meet again and again.

“Jesus,” Dean pants when he can. “Bed, Sammy. Need a bed.”

They break into a guest room on the second floor that looks empty, at least in the brief glimpse Dean gets before Sam’s back on him, before Dean bites his lip and Sam opens his mouth, and jesus, the sound the kid makes--this high needy thing that spills down Dean's throat, a long sweet pull of everything, that sound.

Some part of Dean’s head is reeling--no, dancing a goddamn jig--at Sam’s hands on his ribs and his mouth on Dean’s throat and the rest of him is just going with it: his coat caught in Sam’s fingers and the kid’s dark growls in his ear, broken chants of “Oh my god. Dean. Oh please.”

They’re not naked but Sam’s hand is in his pants, grabbing greedy at his cock and pushing him onto the bed, and that’s all fucking fine with Dean. He tries to tell Sam this with a kiss but his brother’s mouth is too loose, sloppy and all over the fucking place as he jerks Dean so pretty, his french cuff catching on the head and that’s what does it, what makes Dean shoot all over Sam’s wrist and scream beautiful goddamn nonsense as Sam pants into his face, big heavy scratchy and good, so good.

His mouth keeps moving as Sam leans back, and Dean feels the air on his chest before his brain catches up to the sound of his shirt being torn and then Sam’s right there, big body flush and slick, and he’s coming all over Dean’s sloshy grin before Dean can appreciate the roll of Sam’s hips in his hands, the sharp shudder in his thighs as he gives it up white hot and fast.

But even with his face wet and his body smothered, Dean gets to hear it: the gorgeous way his brother hiccups when he comes, the way he snaps Dean’s name into two parts, two syllables, two halves of some ripped perfect whole.  

They kiss and snicker and sigh, after, and Dean’s so high on the sweet of Sam's breath that he doesn’t hear the door open, doesn’t hear some poor lady gasp until Sam pitches up and mumbles: “Give us a minute.”

It’s only when they make the car, when Dean stops laughing long enough to breathe, that he notices Sam’s tie is still perfect. Still caught in a perfect bow.

Sam follows his gaze, goes to tug the thing free, but Dean’s hand gets there first. “No,” he says. “Sam. Leave it be.”

It stays that way, neat and even, until they find a place to sleep. Until Dean's balanced in Sam's lap on the bed, until he's got Sam's head tipped back and rosy and he can use his teeth, his tongue, his lips to untie the knot.

It takes a long, long time, lots of lazy kisses and little teasing pets as he goes, and by the time he strips the thing from Sam's collar, the kid’s twitchy and desperate, panting through a big sloppy smile. But he goes over easy, lets Dean open him up, tug him out, and the twist of his body as Dean strokes him-- jesus, the look on his face when Dean sucks him down, the shine in his eyes as he comes--there’s no doubt.

He's the most beautiful thing Dean's ever seen.

**

Of course, in all the excitement, they miss the bouquet toss and the garter throw.

“And the cake,” Dean bitches after breakfast. “That thing looked amazing.”

“Probably tasted like cardboard,” Sam says, careless, his fingers snagged in Dean’s hair. “Wedding cakes usually do.”

Dean looks over and the kid’s drowsing against the car window, his eyes struggling to stay out of a flutter, and it’s like a thousand other glances all caught up into one, a thousand snapshots of Sam layered like paper mache to build this one, this man, who’s beside him.

Who loves him in all the ways Dean can think of that count.

It’s been a long time since Sam was a kid, since Dean was, and neither of them are whole in the same way they once were, as grown men solid alone, but maybe, Dean thinks, just maybe, all that shit had to happen to get them here. Together. Both ragged at the edges, sure, both older than they should be in ways other people couldn’t imagine, could never understand, and so it’s only right that they get this. Each other.

Maybe it’s no coincidence that they’re driving straight home through blue skies.

There were days, once, when Dean could pretend that Sam was never dead.

But today, he doesn’t have to.

Because today, the kid’s right here at his side and for now--maybe always--that’s enough.

“Dude,” Sam sighs. “You’re staring.”

“Am I?” Dean says, shaking the wet from his eyes.

Sam’s hand sinks down to Dean’s neck and Dean can hear him smile.

“Yeah,” Sam says, soft. “Don’t ever stop.”

**Author's Note:**

> For thejenblu, by way of thanks.
> 
> Title from 1 Corinthians 13:12. I feel strange even typing that.


End file.
